Orange
by RosesInJamJars
Summary: 'Val snorts with laughter, and after a little while she flips her long blonde curls and informs Ygritte loudly that "that freaky sketcher bloke keeps looking at you."' J/Y modern AU.
1. Chapter 1

_**I do not own this series.**_

* * *

The uniforms of the diner were so damn hideous she's surprised anything actually came of them (except maybe pictures for guests to snigger at as they shuffled around awkwardly at her funeral). She remembers the first time she put it on- a little felt thing, a shade of green that lurked somewhere between emerald and vomit, with a season synthetic fur trim around the sleeves and distant neckline.

She used to think it looked more like an ice skating costume than anything else, but with her knee-high cherry wood coloured leather boots, she doesn't look quite so comical.

After a few weeks, she ends up digging out her old push up bra and makes the middle school boys who hang out at the counter after school uncomfortable- Mance is livid, but he can't bloody well tell her to stick them back in.

So she's surprised when the waitress frock proves to be fruitful.

* * *

She, Val and Gilly are leaning over the green marble linoleum of the counter, bored stupid. Gilly's been neatening the sugar packets for the last twenty minutes, upending the dish and organizing the sachets in order of size and sweeteners, while Val moans about how awful the holiday season is (and who the fuck thought up a pumpkin latte without being bashed to death as a civil courtesy) when the bell above the door chimes and a suit walks in.

Their eyes meet briefly as he enters- he's not overly impressive- pretty in a quiet sort of way, and she thoughtfully plays with the end of her long ginger plait as she observes him.

He seems stressed and moody, but as soon as he sits down in a booth, he takes out a black hardcover sketchbook and a Progresso pencil and begins sketching, hunched over so to hide all of its secrets, while his dark curls shield his masterpiece from the world.

Val snorts with laughter, and after a little while, she flips her long blonde curls and informs Ygritte loudly that "that freaky sketcher bloke keeps looking at you".

At this, she turns in time only to see the man's head dart back down to the book, and she laughs.

"Probably wondering why he don't have food." Mance snapped from the office, and Ygritte rolls her eyes as the other waitresses push her forward giggling. The whole diner is shiny white and emerald tiles and something that's supposed to be nineteen thirties New York, but she doesn't really care as she listens to the clomp of her heels on the wooden floorboards.

"What're you having?" she asks, not looking at him, as she's too busy looking over her shoulder and sticking her tongue out at Gilly.

When she looks back, he's looking up at her like a deer caught in the headlights.

"No way!" she exclaims, her hand swooping down to pick up the book. He reacts as he tries to retain it, but she's too fast and when she looks back up at him, speechless, he's staring intently down at the table, embarrassment flushing his cheeks.

Because on the fancy paper, it's _her_.

She's leaning over the counter, her plait caught between her two fingers as she's thinking, breasts all but exploding out of her dress, and she grins as she realises that this crow's drawn a bloody portrait of her.

"What's your name?" she asks, still holding his book, and he looks up sheepishly.

"Jon Snow."

She smirks and carefully hands his possession back to him, and he takes it gently as if it's made of glass.

"And why did you decide to draw me, then?" she asks, in amusement.

"You looked nice, with the dress and everything…" He reasons quietly, and she smirks.

"Excuse me," Mance shouts from his office door, "but this is _not_ When Harry Met Sally- Ygritte, take the damn order!"

He stumbles over what he wants, and she's chuckling as she writes it down.

"_I looked nice_- you know nothing, Jon Snow."

* * *

He leaves with a sheepish smile, into the pouring rain, and she smirks to herself as Mance locks the door.

He's back the next day, marking something in a manila folder with a green felt tip pen. She takes his order and he smiles widely at her, and he leaves again without a goodbye.

This happens for another week, and when he walks out on the Thursday afternoon, she gives a groan of irritation, leaves the family she's waiting on and stomps outside, dangling from the doorframe with one booted foot hovering over the street pavement, to shout at his retreating figure,

"You going to ask me out or not, Jon Snow?"

He laughs and she barks back her number- he writes it on his arm and walks away.

When she returns inside, Mance is glaring pointedly at her, and tells her that he doesn't care for her pointless teenaged melodrama in his establishment. She tells him to get knotted.

* * *

She's not the richest of people- she works six days a week, but Mance pays pittance and she's struggling desperately with the rent. Every dress she owns goes with her boots- they were worth every penny and she wears them every day outside of summer, as she has for the last six years. She'd wear trousers like she usually does, but the fact that she'd seen him in nothing but suits probably meant that they'd be going to some fancy place.

Why, oh why did she say yes to dinner?

As long as she had her boots, it ought to be fine. She'd go butt naked, if she had her boots.

* * *

They meet up by an underground train station- he takes her to a posh place with lamps on all the tables and a birdy old man who takes their coats.

He's so innocent, it's amusing, and every time she makes a lewd joke he blushes, and she laughs even harder. And while he's trying so hard not to seem obviously mature and not naïve, his determination gives his voice a hint of huskiness.

She likes it.

The restaurant is so fancy; she's resolute not to be self-conscious. She crosses her legs in an attempt to fit in, but only ends up kicking him in the shin with her boot and he laughs hysterically.

She openly criticises everything, from the small servings of food to the dinky little chains that dangle off the light switches to extinguish the pointless glow of the lamps- he meets everything with an argument, and while he seems annoyed, she can tell he's trying not to smile.

They eat so little that they stop for burgers from a counter that leans into the street. He gets tomato sauce above his lip, and she uses it for a poor and clichéd excuse to lean up and kiss him.

* * *

Somehow, on the fifth time they see each other outside of the diner, they make it back to her apartment. She doesn't even care that he's seen nicer (and more expensive).

They've snogged plenty, but he felt awkward and inexperienced. He'd learned quickly, but when they stumble in through her apartment doorway he confides blushingly "I actually don't know what I'm doing."

"Well I can see that, Jon Snow." She tells him, and kisses him again, "A boy who's never been with a girl…"

They share a wolfish grin, and tumble unceremoniously onto the bed.

And all of the gods and the seven hells, and every other deity in between, she'd never even know he's a first timer, because she's screaming the walls down three times that night.

* * *

She's never been one to depend on a man, because she's been alone for such a long time that she's never had cause to depend on anybody, but if she doesn't see Jon Snow for a number of days, she's liable to kill and when Tormund cuts up the day's leftover pie, she punches it in frustration and then wipes her now purple hand on a napkin.

"Shit! What did I tell you about soppy fucking love stories?" Mance snaps, eyeing the berry mess in distain.

Mance is becoming more and more irritated as their relationship unfurls in his diner.

When she ignores waiting customers to greet him with a kiss as he enters, smiling broadly at her and his curls messy from the wind, Mance sits behind the counter and throws marshmallows at them until she breaks away from her lover and begins throwing them back.

That night, she and Jon fall back on the mattress again, and they shag desperately. She smiles herself in contentment as they sleep afterward in a tangled mess of limbs.

She won't stop teasing him about his job and his suits- calling him a crow, and when he defends himself in amusement, she just tells him that he knows nothing.

He determinedly tells her that his father's company isn't so bad to work at- he likes sharing an office with his brother, and his father sometimes lets them off early.

She laughs so hard at that, and she rolls off the bed. He's like an easily mollified child, thrilled at the prospect of being let out of the classroom before the bell rings.

He exclaims in distress as she hits the ground, but she's not hurt and when he offers a hand to help her up, she rolls her eyes and pulls him down too, before standing up without his help and strolling naked into the kitchen.

In the morning, he suggests that she comes see him at work later that day.

"Why would I do that?" she riddles him. He chuckles, and pulls her into him, spinning her around and pushing her into the kitchen bench.

"Because work is boring and you're not." He tells her, and she smiles as he kisses her.

* * *

She strolls into Stark Incorporated at lunchtime, as she's not rostered at the diner that day, she appears proclaiming her curiosity regarding this magical office he shares with his brother.

When she gets there, she watches them through the doorway for a moment.

The brother's facing the wall with the door, but he's focused on his work and he doesn't look up at her. He's handsome, and she can see the resemblance to Jon, but he seems far too serious- too set in his ways, too conservative.

She can see over Jon's shoulder, and he's drawing something involving a swirling mass of colour, felt tip pens and colourful lids discarded all over his desk.

Robb notices her and says hello- Jon spins around in his chair and grins, leaping up to kiss her.

She twirls around in his chair a few times, her boots hitting the carpeted floor and manoeuvring the seat around, before shaking her head dismissively. She doesn't get what the hype is all about- they seem like an oversold product for those with no energy to get up and fetch something without assistance from the furniture.

As they leave to go to lunch, she hears Robb tell Jon that he likes her- and she calls over her shoulder to not mention anything to their parents.

* * *

He seems troubled over lunch, but does not admit to it. She talks enthusiastically about soccer and how excited she is for the next match, and he nods and agrees and listens, but he doesn't seem entirely attentive and it makes her curious.

"What's got your knickers in a bunch, Jon Snow?"

He looks at her for a long moment, before smiling, and the distraction in his eye seems to fade, before he shakes his head.

"Nothing… nothing."

She pursed her lips, and made a harsh 'hmm' noise.

"Well as long as it _is_ nothing. Because if you're holding out on me, I'll kill you."

He finally laughs, and they ease into a conversation about Harry Potter.

After a while they lapse into silence. She studies him, and he draws her, their eyes occasionally meeting as they go about doing this.

It happens again, and he smiles at her, his hair windswept and messy, felt tip pen stains on his hands, tie askew and grey eyes dancing with something magical, and it's then that she realises that she might be in love with him.

Of course, she's never loved a man before and she doesn't intent to start being weak and stupid _now_, so she denies it and blames the sentimentality of the holiday season.

* * *

**_So… I hope you guys enjoyed reading my stuff. I'm experimenting with styles and stuff, so if it's awful, let me know.  
_**_**Most of this is crap**__**py modern day parallels to their relationship, and I've tried to stay as true to the books as I can, but the TV show might have (probably has) messed stuff up.**_

_**Much love, RIJJ Xx**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**I own nothing.**_

* * *

As soon as she warns Robb not to let their parents know that he's met her, a crack appears on the plaster of their relationship.

He is immediately concerned, because he wants to know that his father and Catelyn approve of her, an indication that she could be 'the-one-he-spends-the-rest-of-his-life-with', and she _knows _that's he's freaking out inside.

He hates lying to her and telling her he doesn't care, while all he wants to do is shout to the heavens "_Why_?"

Because if she's not so keen on him, then he could smash his head against a wall, because he's loved her ever since she'd kissed him after his confession before they first made love.

* * *

He spends his two weeks of holidays at Winterfell, writing Arya's history essays for her and playing Skyrim with Bran.

Ygritte's absence is all but intolerable. He is bursting at the seams with excitement, and barely holding in his urge to confide in the whole family about her. When he is alone, he draws her face, a poor substitution for the familiar curves and crevices. They talk on the phone nightly- he is always the one to call her. She insists it's because she can't afford long calls, but the seeds of doubt are already planted in his mind.

His longing for the sound of her laugh and the scent of her body, is not aided by the fact that his parents don't know about her existence. He wants nothing more than to tell them, but in respect for her wishes, he sits by and listens to them string off available women. Robb is spared the bombardment, still uncertain after his soul-sucking break up with Jeyne.

"Daenerys Targaryen is single." Catelyn provides helpfully. "I hear she's very nice."

"Isn't she kind of crazy and weirdly power hungry?" Robb asked doubtfully, and Ned huffed.

"I've met her- she's a very pleasant girl."

"And have you seen her legs?" Theon added, "_Damn_, she's fine."

"Theon, don't be disgusting- _you're dating my best friend_!" Sansa reprimanded.

"Hey, don't get on me," he defended mockingly, "I'm like a wild bird, I can't be tied down!"

"Did he just compare himself to a bird of paradise?" Arya's friend Gendry murmured, and she giggled.

That was an unfortunate addition- Arya's first crush.

Jon is somewhat torn between wanting to punch the guy for so much as breathing on his sister, and shake his hand, because he was quite an alright sort of bloke.

Of course, Ygritte would probably tell him to stop being so uptight about it (_Jon Snow_), and let them do their own growing.

* * *

Sam listens to Jon's incessant ranting over a drink one of his days in the North.

He sits in relative silence, nodding and asking occasional questions, and then theorises that Jon is being ridiculous.

He spends the next round explaining that he is inventing problems like a dramatic teenager, because discounting that pash with some girl outside the eighth year disco; he's had no love life whatsoever and is still, in theory, a dramatic teenager.

He tells Jon very firmly that this Ygritte is most likely a very nice girl- he'll come to the city one day and meet her at the diner, but in the meantime, Jon is absolutely _not_ to make ridiculous fantasies over nothing and if he wants teenaged melodrama, he should attend one of Sansa's sleepovers.

"I have, actually." He confesses glumly.

Sam blinks in surprise, and Jon clarifies: "They dragged me into her bedroom as I was walking past and held me down. Theon's girlfriend painted my toenails blue."

Sam winces.

* * *

She's working the when he gets back into the city, and he intends to wait for her shift to finish before he goes over there, to spare Mance's sensitivities. But he waits and waits, and paces back and forth, pining desperately like a puppy at a window, and in the end she still has an hour to go, and he can't stop himself from tugging the glass door of the diner open, the force casing the venetian blinds to clang against the frame.

"Not with that damn entrance!" Mance barks as he takes no more than three steps inside "You can bloody well go outside, and come back in like a civilised person-"

"Or I could see Ygritte and _then_ go outside and come back in-"

"Piss off Mance."

And there she is. He grins at the sight of her, and walks past Mance to embrace her, kissing her longingly.

"The holidays sucked without you." He confides into her hair, and she laughs.

"That's true."

"They would have been amazing if you were there."

And there was the moment again, the same sort of discomfort.

"You know nothing, Jon Snow." He slumps in a slight defeat, but cups the side of her head, her orange strands smooth and soft against his palm, wisping through his fingers.

"Shall we go back to mine, when you finish?" she whispers.

She shifts slightly in his arms, before replying.

"What about mine? I picked up the underwear on the floor for you."

Despite the awkwardness, he laughs and agrees.

* * *

As usual, the sex… he can't even think how to describe the sex.

But as he lies next to her, breathing heavily and bathed in his sweat and her scent, he realizes how difficult this makes the intended task.

"Ygritte," he begins, trepidation lacing his tone, "why- why are you so keen to avoid my family? Or come to my apartment- we've been seeing each other for five months and you've never even set foot through the door."

"Maybe I like my bed, Jon Snow." She replies, not looking at him.

"Ygritte…" he draws out, rolling onto his stomach so their bodies are pressed up together. She still won't look at him, only at the finger that he's using to lightly trace patterns on the smooth skin around her belly button. "I only say this because I l-" he catches himself at the last moment, as she gives him a wide eyed, panicked look, and quickly finishes with, "like you. I really, really, like you a lot." He can see the alarm fading from her face, and for a moment, he fears that she finds the prospect of loving him abhorrent, until he remembers Sam's advise and dismisses the notion. He wants to scream out, '_I love you, I love you, I love you'_, and he's fighting every impulse to, but he knows the moment has gone.

He's so afraid that she'll not love him like he loves her… she's swirling and amazing and _confusing_, and he can never quite discern what she's thinking.

"Oh?" she prompts, and he emerges from his thoughts to continue.

"I just- I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

"Why would I be uncomfortable?" she challenges, finally meeting his eyes as she props herself up onto her elbows.

His breathing hitches, and he wonders if she knew what that does to her breasts.

_Of course she knows_, he tells himself.

"With me. In case you feel like you don't know me, or you're afraid that something bad will happen if you meet my family-"

"What would happen?" she asked, sitting up now, and becoming quickly defensive. "Would I embarrass you in front o' your pretty lord father with my poor slumming ways?"

"No, Ygritte- don't put words in my mouth!" he exclaims, but she continues anyway.

"Just because I don't curtsey and drink tea with the queen means that you're better than me?"

"_What_?" he squawks, scrambling to sit up as she slides out of bed and walks to the bathroom door.

"If you're bothered by the fact that I don't wear a dress made of silk from Tralalalaleeday, I'll cut off your pretty cock, Jon Snow, and wear it around me neck."

She stomps into the bathroom, allowing the door to fall open with a bang as she busies herself with fiddling with the tap that's broken but she can't afford to fix. He places his face in his hands for a moment, before slowly following her and wincing as his bare feet touch the cold tiles.

"I'd never care about that, Ygritte." He murmurs from behind her. She tenses as she listens, and he moves forward, pulling her into him and resting his face in her hair. "You wouldn't ever- _never_ embarrass me- do you hear me? You're _perfect_, Ygritte. You're fucking perfect."

There's a pause as she absorbs this, and he inaudibly curses himself- he's gone too far.

But then she twists, turning to face him and kisses him on the jaw.

"You know nothing, Jon Snow." She whispers again.

His grip on her tightens as he realises with a jolt that he trailed after her- he'd do that for her. That he needs her. That she has him stripping away his own principles. And he holds her tighter because he realises that if she left, he'd be falling freely, alone. A wreck.

They stand like this for some time, the cold irrelevant, neither wanting to move until he says,

"But I would like to see you in a silk dress."

"Would you?" she seems genuinely curious, and in response, pulls her up from the tiles sharply, pressing her against the sink at the same time.

"So I could tear it off you." He mutters into her ear.

She laughs, and he feels her calf hooking around his leg and sliding up past his knee.

"I'm yours, Jon Snow," she tells him, "and you're mine."

He moans in agreement and kisses her collarbone, and she adds

"You rip my pretty silk dress- and I'll blacken your eye."

He's just happy that she's not angry over nothing, that he doesn't even mind the threat.

* * *

The weather has warmed slightly, and he decides, one day, to invite her to see Winterfell.

She seems quite interested, by the way she perks up at the idea, but hesitance comes across her face.

He doesn't want to pressure her, and he would rather see the wide, beaming smile than the doubt, so he quickly amends that they can camp out in the old castle and she never even needs to set eyes on his parents.

She seems reassured, and agrees after a moment.

"Or maybe I'll take you there, Jon Snow."

Mance gives her the weekend off and they catch the train and then a bus before taking a short hike up the side of the grounds to the old castle.

The Starks, having lived on the estate since the days of Brandon the Builder decided in Victorian times that the castle was more of a relic than a home, and the Lord and Lady Stark at the time had built a smaller, and less grand (but far more extravagant) home over the hill and closer to the main road.

She is awestruck by the size of it, and he laughs at her expression of wonderment as she looks up toward the roof and spins around, and much to her surprise, his timing is well honed enough that he catches her when she stumbles over.

They manage to find a room with a good view of the grounds- she calls it "fucking freezing" but agrees that it's beautiful.

"Do you draw Winterfell?" she asks suddenly, arms folded across her chest, as he places his charcoal equipment aside as he searches in his bag for another jumper for her.

He pauses, before admitting that he doesn't.

"I worry that I won't do it justice." He explains. "Starks have lived here for hundreds of years, and I'm only a Snow."

"You'd be a better artist then any of them Starks." She tells him. "I bet you could."

He doesn't reply, only gazes past her to the majestic grounds and rolling green moors. When he looks back, her smile had become impish.

"You could even draw the inside of this room… or maybe with a little inspiration."

He raises a brow and waits for her to clarify, but she only begins to undress and lies seductively on a sleeping bag.

_Oh_.

But he complies.

That weekend, he draws the entirety of her- not just her nakedness, but her hair, the way it shines in the Northern light, he draws her hands and her collarbones, her stomach and her thighs, her draws her feet, crossed at the ankles and he draws her eyes. When she demands he warm her frozen model's body, they make love, and while she sleeps, he draws her face, peaceful and serene.

(Also not murderous.)

As they ride back on the train, on the Sunday afternoon, she reads Harry Potter aloud to him and he sketches with felt tip pens.

The colour has never been so vivid to him; he has never seen it so mad and vibrant.

In everything he draws, he watches her hair and adds heavy splashes of orange.

* * *

When they are back at home, they go out one night.

As they walk back to her apartment, he has finally prepared the moment to tell her he loves her, when the heel of her boot breaks.

She curses and hops around, and the time was lost.

She seems quite angry about the break, and as half the sole has worn away, she doubts any cobbler would be able to fix them.

He's admittedly disappointed, because he loves the way her legs look in those boots, and loves the way she loves them, but her distress seems rather unwarranted.

But maybe that myth about women's devotion to shoes was true- he'd just never seen Ygritte as being anything like Sansa.

* * *

Over the next few days, she stops trying to make love to him, and she becomes less responsive to his advances, more despondent. Pale with ongoing stress, and crabbily irritable, she claims it's because she's on her feet all day, and the little ballet flats she's now wearing are killing her. She otherwise doesn't complain, she rolls her lips tightly together. But he's waiting for her in bed one night, when she gets home from work. She dives under the duvet, letting in a waft of cold, unheated air attack him, and he feels her feet; half frozen in the early spring winds.

He offers, one night, to buy her a new pair of boots, but she will not accept, despite his best efforts of persuasion.

* * *

He goes north for the weekend with his father, because Arya misses him and has been picked on at school and she needs her brother, and he goes because he loves her.

Ygritte walks with him in her "crappy damn piss pot shoes" to the street corner his father's towncar is supposed to meet him at. He's concerned, to leave her on her own, with the mysterious, looming problem, and he can't keep the idea that it's him out of his head. It's her lunch break, and she's huddled inside her coat over the uniform that he's not ashamed to admit he loves her in. They're five minutes early, and with little persuasion they kiss.

As his fears stray with distraction, he doesn't care that they're in public, or they're making other people uncomfortable, because he knows that she doesn't give a damn and _he loves her_.

He's not sure how long they've been standing intertwined, when a foreign hand comes down on his back, they break apart and they're horrified to see his father.

"I'm not sure how long you've been doing that before I arrived, but the ten minutes I've been waiting in the car ought to be a sufficient farewell."

Jon begins to stutter something, lightly squeezing Ygritte's waist, but she pulls away from him.

He turns, surprised, and she avoids his father's gaze, giving a brief parting smile. She looks sad- almost sorry, and if he's not mistaken, there are tears in the corners of her eyes. He goes to ask her whether she's okay, but she turns away from him before hurrying down the busy street- and all but running as she reached the corner.

"I'm sorry." His father apologises profusely as the car pulls into the traffic, "I didn't realize she'd react like that- is everything okay?"

"I'm not sure…" Jon replies, worriedly staring out of the window.

He begs his father not to tell the others what happened- he'll sort it out, he tells Lord Stark; he'll see what the matter is.

Because he loves her like a crazed _fool_, and she was upset, and he wants to know what's worrying her.

She doesn't answer her phone all weekend.

* * *

When Robb sends him the photos, he doesn't want to believe it.

He walks into the kitchen of his city apartment on the Sunday evening holding his phone, a moment later it tings, and when he leaves the room he wants to die.

They can't be real, they mustn't be.

It can't be her, not Ygritte.

Not _his_ Ygritte.

He storms over to Robb's apartment and hammers on the door, probably waking the neighbours, but he doesn't give a fuck, because his world is spinning and he feels like he's been clubbed over the head, and if he's not careful, tears will spill and never stop.

Half of him just wants to shrivel up and stop existing, and he doesn't even care that Sam was right about the melodrama.

Robb admits him inside, and Jon immediately accuses him of foul play.

The Smalljon and Theon are both there, and for once, neither are laughing or spouting innuendos.

Theon does not even tease him for his glassy eyes.

They all saw her, they all agree.

It was Ygritte- _his_ Ygritte, in the hotel lobby with Robert Baratheon, _her_ mouth that he kissed, and _her_ arse that he gripped as they entered the elevator.

And now more so than ever, he just wants the world to stop, and he wants to freeze and never melt.

* * *

The next day he tells her it's over.

He goes to her home, and she sits on the bed they made love on, where he lost his virginity, and she listens mutely, passively, as he speaks.

He wants nothing more than to be loud and angry and shout and smash things, but all that comes out of his mouth is a quiet, steady voice, devoid of emotion.

He tells her that he loves her, that he wanted to be by her side forever, that she broke his heart and killed him, and on the inside he is empty.

He wants to call her a cold merciless bitch, but he can't bring himself to speak the words.

For once, she has nothing to say. She only whispers five words as he leaves.

"You know nothing, Jon Snow."

* * *

_**Thank your for reading this (I hope you enjoyed it) and Merry… Boxing Day/Happy Holidays!  
Reviews welcome Xx**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**I own nothing.**_

* * *

These boots aren't the same as her old, broken boots.

These ones pinch and blister, but she supposes she only needs to wear them in. She has spent a week hunting down the right colour and heel that resembled her old ones, but they feel cursed and tainted.

She puts them on in the morning and takes them off at night time with a heavy heart, throwing them harshly into the wardrobe and slamming the door on them.

Despite the fact that the temperature is rising daily (Mance has taken pumpkin lattes off the menu and put fruity summer drinks on), in the dark night, her bed feels cold.

She wears heavy pyjamas and piles every blanket she owns on her bed, and it's more than enough for frosty winter nights, but she wakes up covered in rivers of sweat and the iciness is still frozen within her.

She goes to the doctor, after a few weeks, but as she sits in the waiting room, she rolls over her problem in her head and runs out before they can call her name, swallowing some emotion that's battling its way up her throat, cursing her stupidity and fickleness.

She feels like the entire thing is a Jane Austen story- she's Pride and he's Prejudice, but she'd have no idea if that even suited the actual plot of the book because she hadn't read it, Jon had.

At the diner, she still feels a strange sense of anticipation at lunchtime, before she remembers that he's not coming any more, and she's disappointed for the rest of the day.

* * *

Being the man he is, Ned gives all the staff at Stark Incorporated a month off at the highest point of summer.

Jon is distressed, at this idea. He has been throwing himself into his work, over the past few moons, the scratching of his biro absorbing as he navigates his way through creamy manila folders and thick wads of serif information. Robb, concerned, tells him over their desks as he's packing his briefcase on the last day while Jon works, to take the four weeks and relax, to forget about Ygritte and spend some time with his siblings.

He says that Catelyn has no idea what might be upsetting him, but she has expressed concern regarding his solemnness, of late. This is startling for Jon. Catelyn has never liked him (for obvious reasons), and he is stunned to realise that through time she has cultivated affection for him, that should branch so wide as worry.

It is this that entices Jon to do as he is bid, and as the two Starks, a Snow and a Greyjoy sit through the long drive back to the North, he reads a heavy saga book about the Second World War.

Having no work to do, he does Arya's holiday homework, optimises the efficiency of Sansa's nail polish index, and reads every book in the house (including Rickon's second year readers), holed up in his bedroom. While he is busy, he feels nothing, and that emptiness is better than what he had felt before.

When he is done with this, he organises them first by alphabetical order in the shelves, and then the next day he lines them up in a rainbow that spreads through the entire house.

When he shares his intentions to line every tome up according to height (while wielding a tape measure), Catelyn and Arya exchange a look of sheer exasperation, before his father's wife opens the door and his sister grabs the front of his t-shirt, and flings him outside.

He is then banished from the house during the day.

He walks a lot, and explores the grounds in detail he has not known since he was a boy.

Sometimes Robb joins him, or Robb and Theon, sometimes Bran comes too, but for the most part he's on his own.

On the twelfth day of his holiday and eighth of exile, his legs take him through the door of the old castle, and before he knows it he's standing in the middle of the room they had shared.

There is no sign they were even there, no indication that that day existed, save for his memories and the portraits in his folio at the bottom of the wardrobe.

He hasn't touched his paintbrushes in months, but that afternoon, as he feels the sketchbook and pencil in his hands, he is rejuvenated from his slumber.

And so he draws everything.

Just like she suggested, as per her idea, he draws the old castle and weirwood, the places they used to play as children and the river. He draws the oaks around the edges of the new house, and the ridiculous Victorian hedged garden. He sketches flowers that bloom in the summer, his family and the groundskeeper, Rodrick and the boys' nanny, Osha.

He doesn't use colour, only a grey pencil.

When he's finally allowed back inside, he asks Catelyn for Daenerys Targaryen's number.

* * *

Mance had told her that under no circumstances was she allowed to be sentimental or emotional in his diner.

So he's furious when she sees Jon's face on the pages of a newspaper while she's delivering a plate of greasy chips and she rips the gazette from the customer's grasp.

It's the society pages, detailing some charity benefit, and he's there in all his long-faced glory, stony and serious behind his winning smile, standing beside some pale, beautiful, rich looking bird.

Her name is Daenerys Targaryen, and she's a disgraced billionaire's daughter, much more suitable for a son of House Stark.

The writer praises her grace and poise, and how stylish she is in her flowing silk gown, and for the first time since she was a little girl, Ygritte bursts into tears. She bunches up the newspaper and throws it to the ground, stomping on it violently, watching it flatten under the heel of her treacherous boots. Customers are inching away from her when Tormund comes running out of the kitchen and pulls her away.

He gently takes her into the freezer, sits her down on an unopened bucket of mayonnaise and passes her a piece of paper towel to blow her nose with.

Mance tells her to go home and come back in a few days when she's not liable to explode.

As it's summer, the uniform has changed to a small white cotton dress with the same low neckline and thick straps, and a dinky green apron that won't even cover a period stain. She still thinks it looks ridiculous, and wears it with sandals now, because she's sweltering in her boots and they're hidden from sight under her bed (unless it's been raining, when she decides against wet feet).

So she adopts her mask. She works. She eats. She walks. She sleeps. It quells the bitter anger, resentment and sadness that rages within her, and that, she supposes, is something.

She's been working steadily for a few days, before two girls come into the diner in the afternoon.

They look so familiar that it's scary, because she feels like she's never seen them before in her life, but something about them is blindingly recognisable.

They whisper and converse, the older one swatting the younger one over the head as she says something, but in the end they both agree and walk toward the far counter and sit opposite from Val.

Ygritte's at the till, but she can still hear them as the younger one asks her,

"We're looking for someone and we think she's a waitress here- she dated one of our brothers and we need to talk to her."

"Not in my diner!" Mance shouts in irritation from the back room. The younger girl flips him off, and the elder one's already giving him an apologetic smile for her sister.

But then the taller ginger sees Ygritte, and points discreetly.

"That's her- the hair! Just like the painting."

Ygritte slams the till drawer closed, their recognition hitting her like a fist, and she strops over to them. The elder is ginger and elegant, and the younger is so similar to the crafter of the tales she knows them from that when she looks at her, an arrow of solid ice thuds into her chest.

"I'm the whore that broke Jon's heart, what can I do for you?"

She knows which is which, and unnerves them slightly by addressing them so.

The older one smiles, while she smooths the hem of her little floral sundress, which is still wet from not reaping the benefits of the umbrella's protection, her coordinated pink sandals perched elegantly on the foot bar of the stool, and begins a tactful descent to her question, until Arya interrupts Sansa and asks bluntly why they broke up.

"He dumped me." She answers carefully, as she is not entirely eager to divulge the whole reason for their parting.

"You Starks are only allowed in here if you keep your bogus teenaged drama outside!" Mance warns from the back room.

"But why?" Sansa presses to Ygritte, and Arya swoops in again.

"Robb said you fucked Robert Baratheon."

The fist was back again, smashing into her stomach, and she nodded mutely.

"He didn't tell us," Sansa reassured smoothly, "he was telling Jon's friend Sam and Arya overheard."

"Well I shagged him." Ygritte told them briskly, writing down some relatively pricey meals on her order pad for them, before adding, "Robert was good to me," _not a lie_, "there was a big economic difference between Jon and I, okay? I'm a little bit broke."

She goes to place the order on the skewer at the kitchen window, and when she comes back, Sansa's eyeing her dubiously.

"Clearly you're not that broke, if you can afford those."

She's gesturing to the boots, and Ygritte shrugs as she panics.

They were made by a fairly posh brand, to last for years, as her other ones had been, but they weren't marked as such. She suspects a girl like Sansa would have a second home inside shoe catalogues, and doesn't think much of it.

She walks away from them then, busying herself with the salt and peppershakers on the booth tables, and interrupts their hushed whispering to give them the food they didn't order.

They've been there a while when a fat man walks in, and heads over to them. He joins in the conversation, and she feels that this might be Jon's friend Sam.

Gilly smiles at him as she works.

* * *

He's been dating Dany for a few months now, and as the autumn leaves begin to fall, he takes her to Winterfell to meet his parents.

She's understandable and easy, for the most part. On their first date, she ate the tiny portions of posh food and smiled and made small talk. She wore fancy clothes and bothered around in the bathroom, she was excited to meet the Starks and they _loved_ her, she was smart and funny and gorgeous and blonde, and she when she was angry, he always understood why.

She never threatens his life, either.

He's tried to draw her, a few times, and she doesn't realise.

They all appear on the paper strange and bumpy and not quite right, and in everything else he draws, silver was not easily available in felt tip pens.

He knows that Robb has noticed, but his brother says nothing. He simply smiles.

Jon can tell that he is entranced by Dany, but he is far too honourable to so much as look her way.

He hates that, just a little bit.

After an afternoon of driving and polite introductions to the Starks, which leaves them suitably impressed, they bid the family goodnight and he takes her upstairs to his childhood bedroom.

He knows she showers in the morning, so he leaves her to unpack her things while he takes the bathroom.

When he emerges, she's sitting on his bed with his big black folio in her lap.

She's always been fascinated by his art, but he anticipates that she'll be upset when she discovers that he's never so much as sketched her, and in her lap are portraits of this _woman_- all of her.

He's standing horrified in the bathroom door, and she looks up, and she's smiling.

"These are spectacular, Jon." She tells him, her voice glowing with admiration, and he lets out a relieved breath. "You've got amazing talent."

He thanks her, cursing himself for not burning the pictures, and goes about changing into his pyjamas while she continues to study them. In the dim reflection from the bedside light, he can see the lively orange reflected in Dany's paleness.

"She's beautiful." She remarks. There is a heavy pause, in which he says nothing, before she asks softly, "This is Ygritte, isn't it?"

He nods, and he can barely bring himself to look at her. When he does, she meets his eye with her piercing, lilac gaze.

"Jon… will you answer me something?"

She doesn't hesitate, she doesn't dwell- she simply waits for him to nod his ascent, holds the folder open to Ygritte's sleeping face, and asks him if he's still in love with her.

His throat is clenched and he feels as if a thousand fists have pounded him, and all he can bring himself to do is nod.

Shame flushes at his face, self hatred bubbles up inside him and he almost can't believe that he's lead Dany on for so long, when she's so amazing and he's so fucking _hopeless_.

But she just smiles.

"We can't be together." She tells him simply, and he agrees. "Which is terrifically convenient," she admits openly, "because I'm quite sure that I'm in love with your brother."

He's stunned, and fumbles for the words.  
"R-Robb?"

They'd met many, many times at the office and in the city, but he'd never even imagined what a good actor she was to hide _that_.

"No," she affirms with a heavy voice of cynicism, "Rickon."

He sits down on the mattress beside her and shoves her slightly.

She laughs.

They don't fight, and she sure as anything doesn't storm out and go back to the city. They sleep in his bed as they have in the last few months, and they wake up beside each other with an air of companionship, unsullied with sex.

"You're going to talk to Ygritte, aren't you?" Dany asks, rolling onto her stomach, and fiddling with the hem of the sheet. Jon, who is leaning against the headboard, pauses to look at her, the horror that washes over him akin to that of finding a partner for the school dance.

"I- I don't…" she raises and eyebrow, and he withers slightly. "It's um… not that simple."

Dany just frowns, and rests her chin on her palm.

"Why?"

He struggles for a moment, before carefully plucking out his words.

"I… I love her. But I trusted her. And even if anything were to transpire between us again, I don't know if I could give her my love again."

Dany rolls onto her back, to stare at the ceiling with a concentrated pucker in her brow.

"Unless she loves you too and regrets what she did and if you give it another chance could live the happiest, most monogamous relationship in our history."

"Nice." He notes dully. "But this isn't Love Actually."

"You love that film."

"But I don't live in it!" he exclaims, before looking back down at his knees. "I just… I don't know."

"I know!" Dany singsongs, and he glares. She keeps talking, though. "You love her. She might feel the same way- is that really worth losing because you were too busy being a broody little shit?"

She rolls out of bed and crosses to the bathroom, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

Later that morning, she comes down to breakfast with damp hair, and sits beside him.

Catelyn asks them what they have planned for the day and maybe they should explore the grounds, as they can be quite romantic this time of the year.

They inform her casually that they might just play videogames with Bran, because they broke up last night.

There is an awkward silence, then, until Dany reprimands him for doing that _thing_ with his toast crusts that irritates her so much, and the family lulls into easy chatter.

After they drop her off at her apartment block on the Sunday afternoon, Robb asks him what happened.

When he tells him that it ended because Jon still loves Ygritte, and Dany has accidentally fallen for Robb, he thinks his brother is about to pass out. Jon can't help but smile, as after the fourth minute ticks over, their father attempts to retrieve the pulse of his frozen son.

* * *

The rain is hammering down when she gets a text from Jon.

She sees the contact name, and all but throws the phone across the room in terror and shame.

But she opens it nonetheless, and is surprised to see he wants to meet up- at the diner, of all places.

He informs her that he wants answers, so she obliges, and is waiting with a gloopy milkshake in the booth farthest from the door when he comes in.

She has to admit, he looks good. He is dressed as he was when they first met, but the innocence and naïveté in his face has gone, and she knows that she took it.

She is unsure whether to smile or frown at that.

He smiles when he sees her, and makes his way over, faltering at the sight of Sam at the counter.

"He's dating Gilly." She tells him quietly, "He spends a lot of time here."

"So he tells me."

Jon does look good- he seems almost happy. She likes that idea.

"I hear you've moved on from waitressing." He mentions, and she nods, feeling secure in that topic.

"I'm sorting through the archives at a cathedral- they're very well conserved but there's no one definite answer. There's a lot about the first men putting the Wall up and the division between the Westerosi and the Wildlings."

She pauses, and he's smiling again.

"You love it, don't you?" She nods, and she's horrified to realise that she's blushing. "It shows in your face."

"Are they having a romantic reunion over there?" Mance's voice angrily asks somewhere in the distance, and they both share a laugh.

She asks about Robb, and mentions that she saw Daenerys in the newspaper. He coughs and smiles at that, and says nothing, as if he's hiding a particularly amusing secret, and she rolls her eyes.

"You said you wanted answers." She blurts suddenly, and as his expression becomes sombre she begins investigating her milkshake.

"I did… I do." He answers steadily. "I- look, maybe."

She raises an eyebrow, and he's visibly struggling. Val brings his steaming coffee and he thanks her, she lurks as long as she plausibly can to try and overhear something, and when she leaves, he begins again.

"You know what I did? That day."

The day they broke up. She shakes her head, and he continues.  
"I pulled Arya out of school- she goes to the Lannister place, the boarding one."

"I bet she appreciated that."

"I saved her from double geography- she hates it when I come in. This girl she can't stand always giggles."

Ygritte sniggers at this- the horrified expression that washes onto his face.

"I took her shopping and whined to her the entire time."

"She milked your bank balance?"

"And, how. I saw things I never thought I'd see."

He now looks thoroughly traumatised, and despite the fact he's probably leading to something important, she can't help but laugh.

"And what's this got to do with anything?"

"It's sort of a really bad allegory- look, the point is that I've spent too long moping like a whiny child to really-"

He stops short and busies himself clenching and unclenching his fist on the table top. She wants to tell him that he ought to have planned what he wanted to say when he called her here, but it doesn't seem quite right.

"Look- I know you did it… _him_," he starts again, "and I don't know why- I'm a bit afraid to know why, and I was so angry, and so upset… I don't regret ending it… us."

That is like a punch in the heart, that is, but he ploughs on.

"I'm still hurt, and I'm still- I don't know why you did it. I can't say that knowing will be great, but…" he pauses, mustering the courage, before saying, "I meant it, though. When I told you that I loved you." He looks at her then, "Do you- did you ever?"

She looks away and nods, taking a moment of hesitation to muster her voice, before finishing

"I do."

Deliberately, his hand snaked its way across the table and rested, palm up before her. Slowly, and with much uncertainty, she lifts her own from her lap, and awkwardly rests it in his.

His palm is earnest and familiar, and it warms her to her very core.

* * *

_**So there's part three! Thank you so much to those who reviewed and followed and favourited and everything- you're amazing!  
AAANNNDD happy New Year! (late). I hope you have enjoyed this chapter, and I thought I should let you know that the next one is the last instalment.  
Reviews welcome Xx**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**I own nothing.**_

* * *

They go by his suggestion, and rebuild. He tells her that she did whatever she did, but it doesn't change fact that he wants to wake up beside her every day, until his last day.

They meet up most days during their lunch breaks. And they tell each other that they love one another every day.

For a while, it seems that they are simply drifting. They go out, stay in, he stays over at hers, she stays at his. It just seems to happen, and as long as they encounter no qualms, he doesn't mind.

She was apprehensive, the first time she saw his apartment, but seemed to be making a point as she stepped over the threshold. He showed her around, and left her in the living room as he went to fetch something from his bedroom, and when he returned she'd made herself comfortable- thrown off her shoes and stretched out on the sofa, and seemed completely at home.

He gets texts from Robb at the same time as Dany- he tells Jon how happy he is, having gone to dinner with her last night, and she tells him that's he's a bit clumsy behind the bedchamber door.

* * *

They're walking down the street one-day during their lunch break, hand in hand, and despite the biting cold of the early spring air, she's too proud to ask him to warm her up.

Their arms swing back and forth, and for the first time since the initial leg of their relationship, he's relaxed like a fair maiden on a summer's day (part of the long, rambling and complicated metaphor that Gilly had used in her vows the day she married Sam, that nobody but the happy couple seemed to quite able to follow).

So when they see Robert Baratheon walking towards them with the swell of the crowd, the way he hardens to a man like steel is obvious, and she curses under her breath when the old fat fool spots them.

"Didn't think you had it in you, Snow!" he remarks loudly, and laughs heartily.

"To what?" Jon asks, cautious and confused.

"Ter… you know." He gestures to her, and indicates a transaction of money, rubbing his fingers together.

She watches as his eyes flit back and forth between the portly man and her, and her breath leaves her for that eternal moment, waiting for him to figure it out.

It's known that Robert is a big fan of financial knob wobbling, and she can see the horror rising in his eyes as he looks to her. She can't bear for that realisation to become revulsion, or disgust, so she leaps the question that has yet to form on in his mouth.

She licks her lips and rocks back on her heels, pointing to her feet.

"Boots." She tells him as resolutely as she can.

She can almost see it unfurling inside his brain: the winter she had no shoes, the winter she was broke, the winter she was almost evicted, the winter the plumbing was shot, the winter she needed money quickly and urgently.

"I-it's how I did the first pair." She curses her deteriorating ability to speak.

"Seven hells." He breathes. Robert is looking at them in confusion, but all she sees is Jon's face, the urge, the need to be close to her.

He does. He strides forward and pulls her into him, gripping her tightly and burying his face in her neck.

"Why didn't you ask me for help?" he whispers. Shame and embarrassment battle each other, and she feels as if she could vomit a great big jumble of words as she tells him the awful truth.

"Pride."

He does not let her go, but he pulls away, and his face is like a shattered mirror.

"You ridiculous woman." He names her, in that unreadable tone.

She almost thinks he's going to throw her away, like any man would, like he _should_, but instead he starts crying as he kisses her.

She's horrified to find that she is sobbing, too.

She can't believe that they're still afloat. She us not some abhorrent affliction, and his kiss is not one blackened with hatred. Somewhere, in the staggering depths of her head, she calls to mind how fantastic he is, and that _she doesn't deserve him_.

When they resurface into the street again, Robert has cottoned on to what is happening, and apologises profusely to his best friend's son, for buying his girlfriend. At work that afternoon, she's distracted and can't focus, and in a thick black marker writes '_WHORE'_ on her arm, and on the other one to match.

It doesn't wash off properly, and the next night before they meet up she's scrubbing so hard that her skin is red raw and almost bleeding and when he lets himself in, he finds her in the bathroom, rubbing her own self-loathing into her body.

He says nothing, initially. He moves around her to turn off the tap, and she watches his arm tense as he twists it as tight as he can. He then takes the face washer from her hand, and kisses both of her arms before pressing her against the same sink, and whispers in her ear, "You're _perfect_, Ygritte. You're fucking perfect."

"How can I be when I _did_ that?" she asks him. She is weak; she can hear it in her own voice. She hates it. "You know nothing, Jon Snow."

"I know some things." He tells her. "I _know_ that I love you. And I _know_ that you love me. And I _know_ that what happened in the past can damned well stay there, because we're going to be happy, from now on."

She sniffs slightly.

"What do we do now- fuck?"

"No."

She feels disarmed for a moment, but he amends.

"Let's make love."

She can't help but let a teary laugh explode from her throat.

"You sound like a sugardaddy!"

"You've caught me out- I have they second life, you see."

They laugh, a lot and loudly, and, for the first time, they make love.

* * *

She knows he's surprised when she asks to meet his family. He's naked, but for the sheet that lies around his waist like something from a Renaissance fresco, as he sits on the edge of their bed. She agrees anyway, and his large, winning smile is back as he moves over her and they do it again before work (and are half an hour late).

That weekend, they catch the train on the Friday afternoon, and she sees the Winterfell that Jon knew as a child.

His family are dubious of her- Sansa, Arya, Ned and Robb especially, because they know what she did to Jon, but Catelyn and the younger boys seem to like her well enough after some conversation.

Sansa comes around with a gentle heart and maternal sympathy, and Robb does the same with Jon's encouragement.

They've been there an hour when Jon's flawless, pale ex walks in, and Ygritte thinks she's about to choke on her own heart (but while the woman might be pretty, she could snap that princess like a twig). She's trying to find some sort of reassurance or explanation from Jon, but he just hugs the woman in greeting and she then kisses his brother.

Jon looks over at her and roars with laughter at the expression she's sure is on her face, and she wins Ned's approval when she hits Jon with a wooden spoon after he manages to choke out that she had no idea about Robb and Dany.

It seems that while Daenerys is perfectly groomed and manicured and created, she's quite a nice person and a lot of fun, and they soon earn each other's friendship. Jon's favourite sister still gives her combustion glares, which she meets as steadily as she can.

In the morning, as the family sits around the breakfast table like Ygritte hasn't since she was eight, Bran remarks how nice it is to see her with her clothes on.

Jon drops a baking tray in the kitchen with an indelicate crash, and she raises an eyebrow as smoothly as she can, echoing Dany's fluidity.

The boy enjoys the bafflement for a moment, before speaking again.

"Only, you're the girl in the paintings hidden in the bottom of Jon's wardrobe."

"Thank the gods…" she hears Ned mutter in relief, and Catelyn laughs anxiously.

"Bran, what are you doing, going through my things?" Jon hisses over the bench, and the boy shrugs.

"You don't _really_ think we respect your privacy, do you?"

Ned and Catelyn are crazed with worry, but Bran waves it off and tells them in a tone of assurance, "They're much nicer than the girls in Theon's magazines."

Ned has to perform the Heimlich on Robb's friend, who begins to choke on his breakfast.

During the day, she sees Arya texting a lot, and come the night, she bursts unexpectedly into her bedroom to see the pyjamas she'd been pointedly seen in discarded on the floor, exchanged for tight jeans and a shirt that revealed a lot of bra.

"Don't tell Jon- he'd never let me leave like this!" Arya begs quietly. Ygritte leaves her hanging with tension, for a moment.

"What's the name?" she asks, fondly.

"Gendry." Arya confides, colouring slightly. "We were just friends, that's all my brothers think it is-"

"Bullshit." Ygritte murmurs. "They're both ready to smash him if he so much as breathes on you."

Arya tightens her lips, and looks as if she's about to start threatening, but Ygritte simply takes a foil wrapper from the back pocket of her teal coloured jeans and passes it to the girl.

"You're your own person. Just be safe- c'mon, I'll cover for you."

She checks the corridor for signs of life, and Arya follows her to the front door. As Ygritte hurries her through, she lingers.

"You're okay, you know." She whispers, "but if you hurt my brother again, I'll kill you with my bare hands."

She nods, and accepts the condition, before they share tight smiles and Arya leaves.

That night, she climbs into bed wearing a t-shirt and her underwear, and he waists no time in pulling her on top of him, trailing a finger down her side. She'd always found him to be incredibly attractive, but now she sees him with a tinge of gratitude. They both know that something has changed, but they're too stupidly in love to care. The admiration and desire for her still lives in his gaze, but it's not the same. He used to look at her as if she were the moon.

"You're gorgeous."

"I'm afraid I don't own silk nightgowns-"

"From Tralalalaleeday?" he reminisces, and they snigger.

"I love you." She tells him, as she has every day, and he replies in kind.

There a children and parents all through the house, and he wins the argument regarding sex when he reminds her of her screaming.

She doesn't mind that much- she goes to sleep happy.

* * *

They like to piss off Mance, so some days they go the diner for lunch. It's a baking summer day, and it's so busy that Mance is working the register himself.

He's drawn her that day already, in her turquoise fitted linen blouse, he admires the way the strap reaches from atop one breast, around the back of the neck and down to the other, like a trail, her long ginger plait hanging down over the neckline.

To him, she's lost the ethereal glow that used to follow her, but the familiarity of her image seems to make her even more beautiful.

He's tracing the smooth skin of her shoulder lightly with his thumb when he speaks, and he doesn't even realise that he's spoken until she reacts.

"What?" she mutters, rolling her eyes.

"What?" he repeats, confused.

She knows he was lost in his thoughts; she's familiar with the process, so she informs him.

"You just asked me to marry you."

"Did I?" he asks, surprised, as they move up a place in the line. She nods in affirmation, and they stand in silence for a moment.

But now he is curious.

"Will you, though?" he blurts, "I mean would you, anyway?"

She turns around, eyebrows raised in astonishment.

"Now- you're actually asking me to marry you?"

This draws the attention of some of the people around them, who gape in anticipation. He has to think for a moment, before nodding.

"Yes, yes I am."

He has nothing to use as a ring, because he had no idea he'd be doing this, so he just gets on his knee and gazes up at her. She looks around the room, embarrassed.

"You're seriously doing this?" she hisses, trying painfully to bite back a smirk. He nods.

"Ygritte - you make me crazy enough to randomly give me cause to ask you to be my wife in this diner where we met-"

"Oh, hells, no." They hear Mance groan behind the till, and the thud as he hits his head on the counter in defeat.

They pay him little heed, and he continues,

"-and gods help me, I love you with all of my stupid, wasted heart."

She laughs, and he thinks she looks softer, in that moment, like they're making love and she's teasing him and scrubbing words off her arms and they're crying together on the street all at the same time.

"Would you- would you marry me?"

She pauses, as the occupants of the restaurant watch in anticipation.

Finally, she speaks.

"Only if I'm the husband and you be the wife."

The spectators look on, unsure as to what that means, exactly, but he is lit with a sudden joy that blazes like a roaring fire.

He leaps up and laughs with happiness, and she's grinning from ear to ear and they embrace with a forceful, and public, kiss.

Somewhere in the irrelevant space that isn't between either of them, Mance begins a slow clap and shouts at them about their intelligence levels and keeping their love life out of the damn diner, but old woman shushes him and brings a menu down on his head.

"I'm yours," her breath is hot in his ear, "and you're mine."

* * *

They tumble back to his apartment and they make love furiously, and afterward, they lie in intimate silence.

She's resting on his chest, the skin of her back pressed to his, and her arms are resting by his sides, clasped with his. If they could stay in that bed forever, she would commit herself to the moment without a single thought, each wrapped in the other's lingering smell.

The phone rings, and he exhales sharply, blowing her hair out of his face, and wriggles sideways to pick up the handset.

"Hello?"

There's a pause, and she can hear his father ripping into him on the other end of the line, and she sits bolt upright, looking at the clock.

He's three hours late for work, and his father won't even let him stutter out the reason why as he demands that Jon come in the office immediately, and he's already going to sit up before he can hang up the phone.

She groans and rolls over, climbing on top of him and pinning him to the mattress, snatching the phone from his hand.

"Ned?" she asks.

"Ygritte, now's not a good time-" he begins, but she cuts him off.

"Look, some things take priority over your son playing Tetris on his phone under his desk, and buying his _fiancée_- who I hear is a pretty awesome girl- an engagement ring is one of them."

She hangs up and tosses the phone across the room, where it lands on a chair.

He's laughing, and gently strokes her hair.

"I'm so happy." He remarks, before concluding, "I love you."

She smiles and presses her lips to his.

* * *

_**So that's it! I hope the crazy-cliché proposal was… not to repulsive XD  
Thank you to everyone who has reviewed or followed or supported this in any way! **_

_**Any final feedback (I'm just excited to have finally FINISHED a story) will be much appreciated! Xx**_


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